The Path of Tien Lung
by Teek
Summary: A crossover of Kung Fu and Kung Fu: The Legend Continues


The Path of Tien Lung

Then……..

The snow had not stopped in three days. The young man stood at the window of his home, staring out into the white swirled darkness, as if looking for someone. His face was reflected in the glass. It was, he had been told, a face much too serious for one so young. It reflected his mixed Chinese, Cheyenne, and American background although no one had ever taken him for being part Caucasian. He knew that his height came from his American and Cheyenne grandfathers even though he had never met either one. Both were dead long before he was born. Finally he dropped his hand, letting the curtain fall across the window, and turned back into the house.

He sat down in front of the crackling fireplace, his long legs gracefully settling into the full lotus position. It was second nature by now, having learned that, and many other things, from his father since before he could remember. Pushing back his long black hair, he stared into the fire, intending to use it as a focus point for his meditations.

A trip to San Francisco, to visit Uncle Danny and Zeke. He did not go with his father and had recently begun to regret that. He had expected his father back three weeks ago and there had been no word. After a week the young man had walked into town and sent a letter as well as a telegram to Uncle Danny. There had been no reply to either. Nor had he received word from any of the people his father might have visited. It was disturbing and very unlike his father to not leave word.

That night's meditations brought him no peace. They did, however, bring him to a decision. At sunrise he rose to his feet and bowed before the altar that was kept in the living room. He said a prayer of patience and persistence. Moving through the comfortable farmhouse, he began collecting those things that he would need for his journey. After all, he thought, if my father cannot come to, me then I will go to him.

Into a sturdy backpack he put several books, including his journal and his father's. In went a change of clothing, his knife and a small ax. Reverently he wrapped the items on the altar and put them in as well. Settling the pack on the kitchen table, he walked into the small room attached to the kitchen. He looked around at the racks of drying herbs that covered all the walls of the room. He carefully took a sample of each one, wrapped them as he had been taught, and tucked all of them into the decorated pouch tied to his belt. Absently his fingers ran over the design. He had done the beading himself. His father, upon seeing the finished results, had said it was a suitable symbol of who he was--the Cheyenne method of beaded decoration used in the Chinese design.

Finally he walked back to the front window and looked out. It had stopped snowing, a fact he was quite grateful for. He ate a spare meal of rice and tea. When he was done, he took a last look around the house he had lived in for as long as he could remember. Giving a mental shrug, he got dressed to travel. He put on the flannel-lined jeans Zeke had sent last year, a heavy shirt and sweater given to him by Miss Alethea, and sturdy boots. Over these he put on a knee-length Hudson Bay coat with a scarf wrapped around his face and neck. Lastly he pulled on a pair of gloves and settled a hat on his head.

The young man stepped out onto the front porch, taking a look around. Stepping down into the yard and heading off toward the road, a thought occurred to him. The sages say that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. I hope this one does not take that long.

Now….

Kwai Chang Caine was mixing and storing herbs. He sensed the approach of his son. Since undertaking the Shao-Lin training, Peter had certainly become more insightful but his chi was, as ever, a distinctively controlled frenzy. Not long after, Caine heard footsteps.

"Hey, Pop, you home?" Peter asked as he entered the room.

"I am here," Caine replied serenely.

Peter's hazel eyes seemed to be dancing with excitement as he entered the room. Caine decided the obvious approach would be the best.

"You seem…excited, my son," he said.

"Check this out, Pop," Peter said, holding out a newspaper article.

Peter was oblivious to the look that he got for calling his father 'Pop'. Caine accepted the article and read it over without comment.

"Well? What do you think, P- I mean, Dad?" Peter asked.

"It is…interesting," Caine replied.

"Interesting? A live Old West exhibit is going to be great. Did you see the last part? They are looking for people to discuss each culture's contribution to the building of the Old West," Peter pointed out.

"Peter… " Caine began, knowing where this was heading.

"C'mon, it'll be great. Didn't Great Grandfather come to the States during that time period?" Peter asked, tapping at the last paragraph.

"Yes, you know this is so. Peter, I do not-," Caine began in protest.

"Didn't you once tell me that the way to know who you are is to know who your ancestors are? We visited the First Temple but I think it would be good to know my more immediate ancestors too," Peter stated.

"He is quite correct, Kwai Chang Caine," Lo Si stated as he walked in.

Peter jumped at the Ancient's silent arrival. Caine merely looked as if he expected the old man. Besieged by Peter's enthusiasm and Lo Si's calm agreement, Caine finally gave a shrug of acquiescence.

"As you wish, Peter." 

"Great! I'll find out all the particulars so we can get started. See you later, Pop," Peter said, heading for the door.

The two older men shook their heads in amusement as Peter left. Some things never changed. Caine turned to Lo Si. He could see something was on the elderly man's mind as he put out the makings for tea.

"What occupies your thoughts, old friend?" Caine asked him.

"This has reminded me of a line in the Book of Shambhala," Lo Si stated.

"Is it something that troubles you?" Caine asked.

"I cannot not say just yet. It says: 'What once was shall never be'" Lo Si replied, quoting the ancient book.

Caine pondered the words. Though they sounded ominous, he had no feeling of impending disaster. 

"Perhaps its significance will become clear in time, Master," Caine said as he poured tea.

"As all things do, Kwai Chang Caine. Perhaps you will need my assistance when you and your son do this Old West presentation," Lo Si said, changing the subject.

"We would be honored. I am certain you will have many insights," Caine said, clearing his throat a bit.

"But of course," Lo Si replied, his eyes twinkling mysteriously.

Then….

The young man walked along the main road out of Feather Bluffs. He had not decided what direction to take. He thought that perhaps the Tao would guide his steps. 

The weather seemed not to effect the young man's progress. Though it was cold and windy, he walked through the knee-high snow as if through a meadow. It was yet another thing learned from his father. Walking, done properly, was a form of meditation and meditation was often more refreshing and revitalizing than sleep. It was this 'not-minding' of the weather that allowed the young man to appreciate the beauty of the land around him. The trees were covered with snow and everything seemed to be frozen in time. It reminded him of a landscape photograph he had once seen in San Francisco.

As he walked, the young man kept thinking of what might have become of his father. There was, of course, the possibility that the Imperial bounty hunters had found him but deep in his heart the young man did not believe that to be so. Might he have fallen victim to the many small-minded people who did not like those who were not white skinned? That was a possibility. They had been fortunate to find safe haven in the town of Feather Bluffs. They might have been the only non-whites in the area but there had never been a problem. That might have been because of the help his father's medicines provided when there was no doctor around or it might have been because the townspeople had watched him grow from a three-year-old into the twenty-year-old he now was.

The sun was low in the sky when the young man decided it would be good to stop his walk for the night. He headed toward a stand of trees and began to set up a shelter for the night. It was not long before there was also a warm fire burning. Reaching into the bag at his waist, he found some beneficial herbs and tossed them into the flames. The essence of the herbs, he thought, always helps focus the meditation.

He woke with the morning sun and was grateful his banked fire still smoldered. He fueled the fire with what dry wood he could find and set water to boil. As the water heated, he performed the same exercises he always did in the morning. The simple practice exercises did more to warm the body and soul than any fire ever could. After finishing a quick breakfast, the young man carefully repacked all of his belongings and doused the fire. He shouldered his pack and headed off in the direction of the rising sun.

Now…

Caine sat on the terrace of his home. In his hands he held his grandfather's journal. He had read it before but not in the light that Peter had in mind. Carefully, with reverent care, he opened the old book and began to read.

Hours later, Peter walked in to find his father still reading the journal. Caine looked up at him.

"It would have been good to know him when I was young," he said.

"Learn anything?" Peter asked.

"I did, and I believe it will be beneficial to this project. And you, my son?" Caine asked.

They spent several hours talking. For once, Peter seemed to be able to sit still. Caine recalled that this fascination with the Old West had been developed during his years with the Blaisdells. Paul Blaisdell had taken the boy to many re-creations and museums. It was times like these that he envied Paul Blaisdell the time he had spent with Peter when Peter was younger. Caine sighed inwardly and thought, once again, that was useless to dwell on that now.

"Y'know, Pop, it's too bad Grandfather isn't here. I bet that he would have a lot of insights," Peter commented.

"You are correct. He often told me tales of his life as a boy in the Wyoming territory and of his father's life," Caine replied.

Now but somewhere else…

Paul Blaisdell had been away too long. Most likely his family had given him up for dead this time. There had been no contact. He was never even able to tell them he was alive and well. Now, though, he could go home. Or could he? Did they still need him? Want him? 

"You're getting sentimental in your old age, Blaisdell," he told himself as he packed his bags.

He had no idea where he could go now that he _could_ go. The memory of a pristine lake, a cozy cabin, and warm family nights surfaced in his head. Yes, that's it! Spend some time there and ease yourself into the idea of having a life again. 

With a smile he had not worn in a long time, Paul Blaisdell- father, husband, and ex-mercenary--got into his car and headed toward the cabin.

Then….

The young man had been walking for many days. It occurred to him that if he were seeking companionship then he would have not found any. He had not seen another person since starting out. He thought it was unusual to have not seen anyone _at all_. He knew that this was common road for travelers. He did not expect to see another person traveling on foot but he did wonder why no rider on horseback had passed by. It was, he thought, most unusual.

The scent of the wind told the young man that a change in the weather would be coming soon. It would not do to be out in the open. As a child he had seen what happened to those left out in the cold. It was a gruesome sight that had given him nightmares for days afterward. He kept looking for shelter as he continued his walking.

The wind and snow started later in the day. Again, it was the act of meditating while walking that kept the young man on his feet. Otherwise the vicious wind would have knocked him down long before. He had just weathered yet another whited out maelstrom when he realized he was heading up hill. Trusting in the Tao and his own good sense, he continued upward. He almost sighed out loud with relief when shortly thereafter a house became visible through the snow. With the thought of warm shelter in his head, the young man headed straight toward the house.

Now…

The next idea came from Lo Si and Peter had to agree--it was a good one. They would recreate an actual railroad workers camp. Of course, there would be more than just Chinese workers. Peter left the recruiting of 'workers' from Chinatown to Lo Si and his father. He would take care of contacting any of other groups, such as the Irish, to see if they wanted to join in. 

"I can't help thinking Paul would have loved this, Mom," he said as Annie Blaisdell set a cup of tea before him.

"You are so right. I am sure he would be in the thick of it all," Annie agreed.

Peter had decided to visit his foster mother and fill her in. After all, she had always encouraged him when he needed encouragement. Annie was glad that he had come. With Paul gone, it sometimes became quite lonely. Peter's vibrant enthusiasm over something he had learned in this house was a ray of sunshine.

"You _are_ going to come on the day of the exhibit aren't you, Mom?" Peter asked.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world. Kelly and Todd and Caroline are coming also," she told him, her ears telling her he had a look of anxious expectation on his face.

Now in Chinatown…

Caine had been sitting in his chambers meditating when he felt it--a bitter-cold wind and a flash of light. As quickly as the sensation came, it was gone. He felt an odd sense of loss but not one that was his.

"I see you felt it too, Kwai Chang Caine," Lo Si said as he entered the room.

"I did, but I do not know what it was. A feeling of loss, but somehow a necessary one, I believe," Caine said.

"I have experienced the same. It has to do with the Book of Shambhala. Of that I am certain. The truth will reveal itself," Lo Si told him.

Caine nodded in agreement but he could not shake the feeling of a presence in the world that had not been there before. Lo Si felt it, too, said nothing. He looked, as Peter would say, 'cryptic'.

"It is very curious, Master. These past few days have drawn Peter closer to our heritage and it is due to something Paul Blaisdell taught him. Paul has, in his absence, brought Peter closer to me. I find myself grateful for this and wishing he were here to share in it," Caine said.

"Perhaps he is, Kwai Chang Caine. Have you told your son about the surprise?" Lo Si asked.

"I have not. It would not be…a surprise if I did," Caine replied.

The Ancient grinned openly then. Shambhala master or no, Caine was looking forward to this surprise also.

Then…maybe….

The young man finally reached the house. He found no sign of any humans about, only scattered animal tracks. Kneeling by the door, he hoped that the owners of this place would understand a traveler's need for shelter. He took off his gloves and placed his hands over the doorknob. Focusing his chi, the young man turned the previously locked doorknob and gently pushed the door open. He rose to his full height and stepped in.

He stood rooted to the spot as he looked around. A house to be sure, or maybe what Miss Alethea would call a cabin. There were many strange things here, things that the young man did not recognize. There were odd little machines in what seemed to be the kitchen but it was a kitchen with the oddest-looking stove the young man had ever seen. In the attached room were other things he could not even begin to describe but there was also a fireplace.

Shaking his head to clear his amazement, the young man finally moved. He set his pack down and began to remove his soaked outer clothing. These he hung over the chairs in the kitchen. His hand lingered over the chairs. Obviously hand made, they seemed not to belong among all the other strange things. There was wood stacked by the hearth and as he placed a few logs in the fireplace, the young man saw the dust that had accumulated on them. The owners of this place had not been here in a long time. 

The fire quickly warmed the young man. Whether it was because of the strangeness of the house or unwillingness to trespass further than he had, he did not explore beyond the kitchen and living room. He changed into the dry clothing from in his pack and hung the rest close to the fireplace to dry. Next he spread his blanket roll out on the floor. The quilt lying over the back of the sofa looked like it would be quite warm. He settled down with the quilt pulled over him and could not have kept his eyes open if he had wanted to.

Now…

As he drew close to his destination, Paul Blaisdell felt a growing sense of anticipation. Maybe this would all turn out right after all. He was tired of being on the run and longed for the relative sanity of family life. 

As he turned onto the road heading up to the cabin, Paul did not expect to see anyone. It was out of season still and none of the locals would be up near the lake at this hour of the morning. He recalled dragging Peter out of bed this early as a teenager to go fishing. The boy was not an early riser but he had learned to appreciate the quiet beauty of predawn on the lake. Through half-opened eyes, perhaps, but appreciated none the less.

Something on the side of the road shook Paul from his memories. His had been the only tire tracks and he had passed no one on foot. Yet, there--on the side of the road- was a single set of tracks heading north. He pulled over for a closer look. The tracks started a few hundred yards back, seemingly from nowhere. The mercenary in him made Paul look around. Nobody to be seen, smelled or heard. He got back in the car and continued on his way. Somehow he was not surprised when the set of tracks seemed to be headed straight toward his cabin. Nor was he surprised, when he pulled up in front of the cabin, to find that the tracks ended right at the back door.

Now…in Chinatown…

"I appreciate your assistance, Mary Margaret," Caine said as he got into the detective's car.

"Anything for you. Besides, I wouldn't miss this for the world. I can't wait to see Peter's face," Mary Margaret said with a grin.

As she started the car, Mary Margaret thought about the request that had her out of bed so early in the morning. Caine had approached her at the precinct yesterday. She was pleasantly surprised to see him. He usually did not come by if Peter was not there. 

"Mary Margaret, will you give me…a ride to the airport tomorrow morning?" he asked.

"You're not leaving, are you?" she asked, horrified at the thought.

Caine smiled gently, reading her all-too-obvious emotions," No, I am not. I wish to greet someone. It is a surprise for Peter."

"Oh, okay, "she had replied, trying not to look too relieved," Uh, what time?"

"We must be there at 7 a.m.," Caine told her.

"A little early for me but I'll live. It'll be no problem, Caine," Mary Margaret said.

"Thank you, Mary Margaret," Caine said, raising her hand to his lips.

I would have said yes anyway, she thought as they parked the car, but that kiss was worth it too. She had stopped asking Caine who they were meeting at the international arrivals terminal. He patiently answered 'You will see' each time she had asked. Mary Margaret followed Caine through the building to the Air France terminal.

"What flight are we waiting for?" she asked, looking up at the arrivals board.

"This one--Flight 1880," Caine said, pointing out the hi-lighted 'on time' notation.

"I'm going for some coffee. Do you want something?" Mary Margaret asked.

"I will be fine," Caine said.

He certainly seems excited, Mary Margaret thought as she headed off to the Starbuck's counter. I wonder who he knows in France. Must be somebody he and Peter met when they went over there. They never did say too much about that trip, she mused as she headed back to where Caine.

They watched in silence as the expected flight landed and pulled up to the terminal. As the first passengers disembarked, Caine's eyes began to search the crowd. 

"If you tell me who we're looking for, I can help look," Mary Margaret pointed out.

"You will know when you see him," Caine replied serenely.

It was just as he said. Mary Margaret almost dropped her coffee when she saw him. The old man walked slowly down the ramp, leaning on a cane. But for the glasses and whitened sparse hair, he could have been Caine. She watched as Caine stepped forward and embraced the old man. He then turned and led the old man to her.

"Mary Margaret, I would like you to meet my father--Matthew Caine," Caine said.

"I am charmed, my dear," the old man said, kissing her hand in a familiar gesture.

"Now I see where you get the charm. I'm honored, sir," Mary Margaret replied and, turning to Caine she remarked," Now I see where _you_ get the charm."

Now…at the cabin…

With a long ingrained stealth, Paul approached the cabin, gun drawn. He had smelled the fireplace and knew the owner of the tracks was inside. He found the spare key in its usual hiding spot. Whoever had gone inside had obviously broken in. He stepped inside, looking around for clues. No broken glass or forced locks, but there was a drying puddle at his feet.

He stepped into the living room and stopped short. Wrapped in the quilt Annie's grandmother had made, a man lay sleeping in front of the fireplace. Clothing, obviously belonging to the sleeper, hung nearby- drying. Paul made no sound as he crept to the sleeper's side. The man lay sleeping on his side, long black hair covering his face. Paul pointed his gun, the hammer ready.

The young man woke to the sound of a gun's hammer being clicked to ready and froze. 

"I am unarmed. My knife and ax are there by my pack," he said carefully.

Paul stepped back cautiously, his gun still aimed steadily, "Get up."

The young man stood up slowly, his hands raised. He had been so deeply asleep he had not sensed this man's approach. He found himself looking at a man who looked to about sixty years of age. His hair was gray and white and he had steel blue eyes. Right now those eyes were staring at him in suspicion.

"If this is your home then I ask forgiveness for trespassing. I needed shelter from the storm," the young man said.

Paul continued to stare at him. The face seemed familiar somehow. The voice held traces of a Chinese accent mixed with another that he could not identify.

"How did you get in here?" Paul asked.

"I opened the door, sir," the young man replied simply.

Trusting his mercenary sixth sense, Paul made a decision.

"Lower your hands, son. I believe you. I can't begrudge somebody shelter from that storm," he said.

The two stood there silently appraising each other.

"What's your name, son?" Paul asked carefully.

"I am called Cricket," the young man answered.

Paul recalled something Peter's father had once said. 'A cricket in the home is good luck'. I wonder if this is an omen, he thought to himself.

Now…in Chinatown…

Mary Margaret had driven Caine and his father to where the exhibit hall. She was glad to have been able to see Peter's face light up at the sight of his grandfather. The older Shao-Lin was escorted through the hall by his grandson, who explained everything as they walked.

"So…what do you think, Grandfather?" Peter asked.

"I think you and all the others have gone through a great deal of work. You have done well, Peter. Perhaps later, after I have had time to rest and meditate, I will be able to give some pointers?" Matthew replied, carefully using the modern word.

Later in the day, after all were refreshed, the three generations of Caines sat down to talk. Matthew held his father's journal in his hands as he read and Peter asked questions. 

"It is so amazing how things have changed yet there are still Shao-Lin," Peter remarked.

"It has been two thousand years, Peter. A mere hundred or so years are, you might say, a…drop in the bucket," Caine said.

"I'm surprised Great Grandfather did not run into more Indians," Peter said.

Matthew gave the familiar Caine shrug," One cannot guess why. He said once that one did call him Long Drink of Silence."

Now…at the cabin…

After the older man had lowered his gun, Cricket relaxed a margin. This one might have the edge of darkness in him but he sensed light in the center. He realized that the man was still staring at him.

"There is a problem, sir?" he asked.

Paul shook his head," Not yet anyway, son. My name is Paul Blaisdell. You can stay if you'd like. Excuse me, will you?"

Paul headed to the bedroom, to wash up and to sort out his thoughts. There was something odd about that kid. He did not know what it was but he would find out. Oddly enough, he did not find himself at all worried about what his strange guest might do as he laid down for a nap.

Cricket saw no reason not to perform his usual morning rituals despite the strangeness of this place. He unpacked the items from the altar at home and set up before the fireplace. The devotions settled his mind for his meditation and exercises. When he had completed the cycle of exercises, he set about doing what he could to make up for trespassing in the house.

The proper rhythm of swinging an ax was yet another exercise Cricket found beneficial. Despite the cold air he went out to refill this man Paul Blaisdell's woodpile. As the ax rose and fell steadily, he had time to think. Several hours later all he had come up with was more questions and no answers. With a rare note of cynicism, he thought that the adage of seeking the answers first does not always work.

When Cricket finally walked in with an armload of wood for the fireplace, Paul was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee.

"You didn't have to do that," Paul told him.

"If you were kind enough to allow me to stay, then it was the least I could do," Cricket said.

"Yeah well sit down and warm up then. You drink coffee?" Paul asked.

"No, sir, but if there is hot water I will make tea," Cricket said as he joined him at the table.

Paul's eyebrows rose steadily as he watched Cricket open his medicine bag and sprinkle something from it into the water. It was an eerily familiar ritual. He gave himself a mental shake. It isn't possible, Blaisdell, he told himself.

"So what were you doing out walking in the storm? I know most of the locals and you aren't from around here," Paul said.

"I am from Montana, a town called Feather Bluffs," Cricket replied.

"Montana? That's awfully far off for a boy your age to have walked," Paul commented.

"It is not a journey I wanted to take, but my father is missing and I must find him," Cricket said, dark eyes staring into the depths of his cup.

Paul was beginning to get an odd feeling of déjà vu. Maybe he was just imagining things, seeing what he wanted to see so that he would be reminded of home. He glanced up at the young man. No, he was definitely real. So was the firewood. And the design on that bag he has…

"How long have you been walking?" Paul asked, knowing that 'fifteen years' was not possible as an answer.

Cricket looked up, a curious expression on his face, "I am not sure. What is the date?"

"Not sure myself sometimes. Oh, yes--February 10th," Paul said, pulling a pocket calendar from his jacket.

"Ah, then it has been…" Cricket began, his answer trailing off as he stared at the calendar's cover," Mr. Blaisdell, is that the correct year? There was no mistake in printing?"

"No, it's fine. What's the matter, kid?" Paul asked, watching as all the color drained out of Cricket's face.

Now…in Chinatown…

Peter stopped by the exhibition hall on his way to the precinct. As he walked around, surveying all the people putting the finishing touches on their exhibits, he could not help but think that the only thing missing was Paul. He had come to realize that it was possible to have 'two fathers' and he wished he could share this show with both of them. 

"Maybe he'll see the ads for the show and come home," Peter said out loud.

"I believe this is so," a voice said at his elbow.

Peter jumped back, startled, and looked down. There was the Ancient, looking up at him with that mysterious grin.

"Lo Si, you have to stop doing that! Anyway, how can you say that? He's been gone a few years. Do you know something I don't?" Peter asked.

Lo Si looked at him, a twinkle in his eye," Of course I do--I am Ancient."

Peter shook his head. He was not going to ask. If he thought that his father was cryptic then Lo Si had written the book on it. He put all those thoughts out of his head as he headed for the precinct. After all, crime never takes a day off, he told himself.

Lo Si watched Peter leave. The significance of the line in the Book of Shambhala had become clear to him lately. He saw for himself how the map of time unfolded and how each event was woven into the fabric of what is. There was no doubt in his head that all would be unfolding as it should. It would become obvious to all concerned after a while.

Now…at the cabin…

Cricket felt his blood turn to ice as he realized the meaning of Paul Blaisdell's words. One by one, the facts that he had chosen to ignore fell into place. Winter represented the death of the world. He had walked through his world and not seen a single living person. His world, his life and all that he knew…were gone. All of this went through his mind in a flash. He realized suddenly that he was being shaken.

"You went completely white. I thought you were going to pass out. You okay, kid?" Paul said.

"I…I am not sure. All that could have been is now impossible," he said, almost too softly to be heard.

"You want to tell me what it is about the date that bothers you?" Paul asked.

Cricket took a deep cleansing breath to calm himself. He did not expect this man to believe him but perhaps talking would put his thoughts into order.

"It is not the date, Mr. Blaisdell- it is the year. Do you know how old I am?" Cricket asked.

"Eighteen? Maybe nineteen? You remind me of my son a little bit," Paul told him.

"I am almost twenty-one years old, being born in the year of the dragon," Cricket said carefully.

Paul tried to remember what he had learned about Chinese astrology. He personally did not take any stock in that mystical stuff but knowing Peter and his father had certainly broadened his understanding of it. Cricket's next words assured that his understandings were about to get broadened even more.

"In your Western calendar the date of my birth would be April 10th, 1880," the young man stated.

Now…in Chinatown…

Caine and his father were having lunch at Caine's favorite Chinese restaurant. The owner had been overjoyed upon meeting Matthew. The presence of two Shao-Lin was quite a blessing, she had said as she set tea before them. Before they could drink the tea though, Caine felt the unknown presence again. This time it was coupled with a breeze. It was not like the first bitter-cold one he had felt.

"It is more like a warm wind from the south in the first days of spring," Matthew stated.

"You felt it too, Father?" Caine asked.

The old man nodded, "I did. This time, instead of a sense of loss, did you not feel a sense of beginning?"

"Exactly so. This has been very puzzling. It only started after Peter became involved with the exhibition," Caine said.

"Then perhaps we will find our answers there," Matthew told him.

Meanwhile, Peter had just arrived back at the precinct. There was a smile on his face as he sat down at his desk.

"You're in an awfully good mood," Mary Margaret said as she looked up from her computer screen.

"Spring is in the air, Mary Margaret. Can't you feel it?" Peter asked.

"Spring? It's the middle of February, Peter!" she exclaimed.

"I feel it coming," Peter said.

"Great. We have a groundhog in the precinct," Mary Margaret grumbled," You're over a week later, Groundhog Pete."

Mary Margaret shook her head fondly. Sometimes there was just no predicting Peter's moods. It was nice to see that, for once, he was in an upbeat mood. I just hope it lasts, she said to herself.

"So, did Lo Si sucker you into joining the exhibit?" Peter asked as he began to look over his files.

"His _is_ a persuasive little guy, isn't he? He got me to sign up as one of those frontier women," Mary Margaret admitted.

"Can't wait to see you in a bonnet, Skalaney," Peter teased.

"Stow it, Peter, or I'll tell your father," Mary Margaret replied, resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

Now…in the cabin…

Paul stared at the young man. He supposed it fit once he thought about it. The clothing, the mannerisms, and even the lack of familiarity with those things that he himself took for granted. He sighed inwardly. His life had never been the same after Peter came into it. He never would have believed this young man's story otherwise. He watched as Cricket got to his feet and began pacing in silence. Somehow the agitation he displayed seemed out of character.

"Sit down, kid. That pacing's making me dizzy. Look, why don't you tell me what is going on," Paul said as Cricket sat back down.

"I do not mean you any disrespect, sir, but I cannot tell you what I do not know. I do not know how I came to be here or why. I am very lost," Cricket told him.

Paul watched the young man. As different as this young man was from Peter, he still reminded him of the lost child he had been. Maybe I was right, he told himself. Maybe this is an omen--a sign telling me it's time to go home.

"Look, kid, I think I know somebody that can help you. He's…known for it. Just tell me one thing. What's your name?" Paul asked.

Cricket looked at the man sitting across from him. It was in his nature to be trusting and so far this man had done nothing to betray that trust. He gave what Paul found to be an eerily familiar shrug.

"I have told you that I am called Cricket," he said.

"What you're called and what your name is isn't necessarily the same thing," Paul pointed out.

"You are quite wise. I have had the nickname since I was a child. My name is Kwai Chang Daniel Caine," Cricket replied.

Paul sighed. You had to go and ask, Blaisdell, you just had to go and ask, didn't you? He finished his coffee and straightened up in his chair.

"Let's go, kid. You are about to get a crash course in the 1990s," Paul said as he got to his feet.

"Where are we going?" 

"Home."

On the way…

Paul Blaisdell had not been joking. He had told Cricket to repack his backpack, to get ready to leave. Mystified, Cricket did as he said, packing everything as carefully as he had the day he left home. The last things he packed were the altar items. As he wrapped the incense holder, he felt the sting of threatened tears. He recalled the day it was purchased. He had just turned twelve and it was their first trip to San Francisco in several years. His father had been wary of going to the Chinatown area, constantly looking over his shoulder for the Imperial bounty hunters. Father and son found their way to a small shop run by what Cricket thought to be an impossibly old man. His father's fear had been groundless. The old man recognized him as Shao-Lin and made him welcome. The holder, carved jade in the shape of a dragon, was a gift the old man pressed into Cricket's hands as they left. 

"Ready?" Paul asked.

Cricket placed the wrapped items in the pack and stood up, the bag slung over his shoulder, "I am now." 

"Good, then we can be on our way," Paul said.

Paul ran through the mental checklist he always used when shutting down the cabin. He found himself smiling. In a very short while, he would hopefully be in the warm embrace of his family. He hoped that things would turn out as well for his strange young friend.

"Ever been in a car before?" Paul asked Cricket as he stepped out into the yard.

"A car?" Cricket asked.

"A horseless carriage?" Paul asked, remembering what they had first been called.

"I have never seen one. There were none in the city the last time we visited," Cricket told him.

Paul put both their bags in the trunk then opened the passenger door for him, "But you've been on a train before."

"Yes, it is how my father and I made most of the trip to San Francisco," Cricket replied.

"Good, then just think of it as the same idea only on a much smaller and more controllable scale. Just watch your head getting in," Paul told him.

As Paul put the car in gear and headed toward the road, Cricket got the feeling that they were not just heading to Paul's home. He knew that they were also heading toward whatever way his own path was going to lead.

At the exhibition hall…

It was an unqualified success. From the railroad camp to the covered wagons to the Indian village. Each group had a spokesman for their area, giving a lecture on what it had been like for them in the Old West and taking questions afterward. Even the refreshment area was authentic (albeit with the modern convenience of refrigeration), serving fresh lemonade, iced tea, and coffee.

"So, you coming back later for the campfire tales?" Mary Margaret asked Peter as they walked past a display of quilts.

"Wouldn't miss it. Grandfather and Lo Si are going to be telling a Chinese story," Peter said.

"This has been so much fun. I can't wait to hear the singing either," she stated.

"Now if I could only find out what Mom is so excited about. She says it's just from the thrill of the exhibit but I think it's more. She say anything to you?" Peter asked.

"Not a word," she replied.

Lo Si watched the goings-on from his perch on a campstool at the railroad camp. To the passers-by he looked just like he was supposed to--an old-time Chinese railroad laborer. He was actually quite busy pondering the nature of time. He had seen many things in his many years. He remembered the days this exhibition centered on as if they were yesterday. Then again, he added with a chuckle, maybe they had been. 

Closer…

Paul glanced over at Cricket. The kid had not said a word since the drive started. He expected that the young man would have been wide-eyed with shock. Instead the dark eyes seemed to be focused on some inward point. The only outward sign of distress that he saw was the fact that the kid's complexion was several shades lighter then he supposed it should be. About two hours into the drive, he pulled into a parking lot.

"I have to make a few calls," Paul stated.

"Calls?" Cricket asked.

"Telephone calls," Paul explained.

Cricket looked at him curiously and said, "I do not know what you are talking about, Mr. Blaisdell."

Paul sighed inwardly and wondered how he had come to be involved with this strange young man.

"Never mind, it'll take too long to explain. I'll be inside for a while. You might want to get out and stretch your legs a bit," Paul suggested.

While Paul went inside, Cricket stood next to the car. Perhaps this way of traveling is convenient but it is very uncomfortable, he thought as he did some stretching exercises. There was only so much meditation might do to ease discomfort and now that they had stopped, he was feeling the stiffness of car travel in his long legs. When he had finished stretching, he saw that Paul was still occupied. Not wanting to sit back in the car, he leaned against it and looked around.

He had convinced himself that this was not some very bad dream. It was all quite real and it was wise to accept those things that one has no control over. He believed he had done this but he did want to know _why_ it had happened. He hoped that whoever it was Paul Blaisdell was taking him to see had the answers. He looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Well, that went better than I thought. Here, I got you some tea," Paul said as he handed him a cup.

"Thank you," Cricket said as he took a sip of the steaming tea.

"I was talking to my wife. I haven't been home in a few years- business reasons- and I wasn't sure I would still be welcome," Paul said, his voice still rough from the emotional talk with Annie.

"And you are?" Cricket asked curiously.

"I am. We're going to meet up with her at the exhibition hall in the city. The person I think you need to see is there too," Paul replied.

"Do you live in a city then?" Cricket asked.

"In the suburbs--the outskirts, "Paul said, adding the last part after Cricket looked puzzled, "I worked in the city and my son still does."

"He is a fortunate son then to have so kind a father," Cricket commented as they both got back in the car.

"He's not my natural son. His father re-entered his life after fifteen years. They each thought the other was dead. So now, Peter has two fathers," Paul explained.

"Then you are twice as kind, Mr. Blaisdell, "Cricket stated as he closed his eyes.


End file.
